Focus
by kaorismash
Summary: TezuRyo. To Ryoma, Tezuka and Tennis are synonymous. Contains spoilers for Genius 354.


**Title:** Focus  
**Words:** 846  
**Warning:** Spoilers for Genius 354  
**Summary:** To Ryoma, Tezuka and Tennis are synonymous.

* * *

Unconsciously, his eyes keep swerving back towards the player sitting on the back bench, drenched in sweat and panting lightly.

The tennis player looks like he's in pain, with strange bruises on his elbow and scrapes on his knees, but his face betrays nothing. Ryoma finds that strange. He knows the player's name is Tezuka from the loudmouth's outburst. He knows that this player is the captain of the team. He's also gathered that Tezuka had just lost his match.

Tezuka, though, doesn't look affected at all. He is holding an icepack to his elbow and his eyes are focused intently on the doubles match.

Ryoma easily averts his eyes back to the match. He sees that the pair wearing the uniform that matches the one he is wearing is off to a bad start. The scary one who grabbed him earlier was hissing furiously and glaring daggers at his opponent. Ryoma thinks it's vaguely funny but the match itself doesn't really hold his interest.

Instead, he finds himself glancing backwards again. This time a slight jolt runs down his spine when he sees brown eyes focused on him. Tezuka's gaze is narrow and his eyes are unreadable.

Ryoma inhales sharply, blinking quickly. He doesn't shift his gaze, however, like someone who's just been caught stealing a glance. Tezuka himself keeps his sight fixed on Ryoma.

Staying like that, however, is uncomfortable. The view he has by leaning against the rail isn't all that fascinating either. Casually, he backtracks and then plops nonchalantly down beside Tezuka, careful of the bright red racket in his hand. He looks back at the game, feeling strangely smug when his thigh brushes against Tezuka's.

Ryoma is running his hands down the strings of what he's been told is his racket, pressing against them and shifting them to make perfect squares. He's adjusting the tension, he realizes.

Ryoma quickly sneaks a glance from the corner of his eyes. Tezuka is watching the match again, as blank as always. He is sitting tall and straight, back pressed against the bench with a towel draped over his broad shoulders.

Everything in his demeanor is different to Ryoma's, who is slouched low with his backside near the edge of the seat. He hastily slides himself up the bench and adjusts his position to mirror Tezuka's. He sees Tezuka's eyes flicker and can't quite keep the satisfied smile off his face. It's small, barely noticeable, but it's a reaction from the stoic captain nonetheless.

The crowd breaks into enthusiastic cheering, and the opposing team is chanting something ridiculous. Ryoma turns to look at the center of the court. He feels empty. Not quite sad, but not quite lost. He's just witnessing tennis and somehow he can't bring himself to feel anything more to it than that. It's just a game where people hit a ball back and forth.

The ball curves around the seat of the umpire, only to land in the center of the awaiting racket. Ryoma curls his hand around the grip of his racket and wonders if he'd be able to do something like that. He doesn't think he wants to though, he can't see himself hitting that shot. It's too different and the style isn't right. Thinking about it too much makes his head hurt and he finds himself losing concentration. Ryoma doesn't have a long very attention span and so, yet again, he looks at Tezuka.

The captain, despite having lost, still looks dignified. Ryoma doesn't really know what's going on, not really, but if the blond haired guy with the annoying way of speaking was to be believed, they are at the Nationals, playing against one of the top teams in the country. This competition is for tennis, with the large roaring crowds and enthusiastic cheering team members. Ryoma can't bring himself to believe that he's supposed to excel at this sport.

Frankly, he doesn't think he cares much for hitting a bright yellow ball back and forth. Right now he's more interested in watching the recovering player next to him, more interested by the way the light reflects off his glasses, more interested by the way the ice is clenched tightly in Tezuka's hands as he holds it against his elbow. Ryoma, with his sharp eyes, picks up how tense and restrained and frustrated Tezuka seems, even though his face his slack and his eyes are blank.

Surprisingly, Tezuka opens his mouth to speak, and Ryoma finds himself eagerly anticipating the sound of his voice.

"Echizen."

His voice is deep, strong, calming. It reminds him of the hot sun on a summer's day, of the fresh cool water sliding down his dry throat after a long and tiring match on the dusty clay courts, of the ache and pain that settles satisfyingly in his muscles as he sprawls out on the cool grass under the shade of a tree.

It's reminds him of tennis, pure and simple.

"Watch the tennis match."

And strangely enough, Ryoma can't help but keep his eyes focused on the round yellow tennis ball.


End file.
